Swallows and Sauté Pans

By Silver Spun Sand
Wed, 19 Mar 2014    
    - 2753 reads
12 comments
    We were in the field, picking
the first of the spring greens,
when overhead – the whoosh of wings.
Wild geese, with their clipped cries;
the shape of their beaks chiselling 
the skies...
evening dripping from the trees
and in the pan – the leaves
of our picking, turn an even deeper
shade of green, 
even though, presently,
they are more dead
than alive.
And we know we, too, are dying;
growing older every day – never  
to be young again.  
And then,
you ask me to, please, pass the salt;
delicious, they tasted...those fresh, 
spring greens 
as we sat there, lapping up 
the impermanence
of it all; 
the sunset, the snowfall, the rainbow,
the first sighting of swallows...the
total eclipse.  
Not fade away,
didn’t someone once say?
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Comments
I think this is beautiful. As
    Permalink    Submitted by catherine poarch on   
  I think this is beautiful. As usual you swoop effortlessly from those things above us to what's on the table before us!
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Much enjoyed, Tina. and it
Much enjoyed, Tina. and it has a lovely flow to the words and the interwoven thoughts. Rhiannon
 
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Heavy when those thoughts
Heavy when those thoughts come but better shared together over the fruits of a days labour. Finding beauty in the ordinary makes life so worth while at the end of the day.
      Bee    
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Hi Tina
Hi Tina
Lovely poem. I like the idea of evening dripping from the trees.
Jean
      Jean Day    
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Lovely simple images that we
    Permalink    Submitted by Starfish Girl on   
  Lovely simple images that we can all relate to.
Thank you.
Lindy
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